Take Me Back, I Beg Thee!
by skjorn
Summary: The mighty Dragon Slayer. Lost to a vulgarly dressed human with a block of alloy masquerading as a sword. O, Andre, making such a travesty of a weapon. He'd finally thought he would get to rest in peace, frolic with his fellow Knights of Gwyn and not lose his pride in the process, and what happens? He'd been transported into an alternate reality, and now deals with fools. Pah.


The chosen undead stood before him. _Him,_ the captain of Gwyn's four knights. Ornstein scoffed internally. How could his fellow knights have fallen to this - _this_ _barbarian_ , this nearly naked man, caked in dried blood, mud and other foul, unknown substances, lower bits covered in a dirty rag and wielding a large sword that was almost as big as his torso. Was this a cruel joke made by fate? Had the gods really given up on him? Did he really have to fight this - this _savage_? Disbelieving thoughts ran through his mind faster than Artorias could dash across a room. Ornstein sighed. He gazed upon the chosen undead's smug, smirking face dispassionately, lamenting for he knew, deep in his mind - that he would lose. Obviously, for he was called the chosen undead for a reason. This one would be his downfall, no matter how... uncouth he looked. He had fallen thousands before this man, and now he would be the one to fall. To that massive Black Knight Great Sword, which was currently carelessly slung over the bare shoulder of the filthy undead. He shuddered. He would never understand how humans could sink the sharp edge of their heavy swords into their pauldron-less shoulders. No matter. He never had a chance to begin with - he could recognize Andre's fine work anywhere. That sword was a +5 Black Knight Sword, he was sure of it, although he didn't understand how the undead could have scourged up resources so fast to achieve such a strong sword. No, Ornstein was going to die here. He was too weak! He didn't have his breakfast yet, and he skipped supper last night! He didn't have enough energy, - he was too busy _admiring_ (he was not!) - he was polishing and buffing his armor to its fullest to be bothered do so! Ornstein squeezed his eyes tightly together, pushing back the urge to place his face in his palms and _cry_.

He didn't do that, of course. He was Ornstein, The Dragonslayer.

The chosen undead twirled his huge sword in his hands disinterestedly - _somehow -,_ as if he knew that Ornstein was having a minor mental breakdown and was waiting for him to get over it. Ornstein resisted the urge to sigh again. Maybe he would have had a chance if Smough had not fallen so fast. Smough, the _useless_ , bumbling idiot. He had rushed in, completely ignoring the overly complicated plan he had spent precious hours, no, _days_ pouring over, and had fell to the bloody chosen undead within a mere few hits. Ornstein felt like - well, he didn't know what to feel. Sure, maybe he had already predicted it a long time ago, maybe, he knew, Smough wouldn't care about his extremely complex plans, maybe - just maybe, he knew Smough's tiny mind would not be able to comprehend the complicated instructions he had given, and perhaps, he didn't want to die before Smough and be seen as the weaker one - he had a reputation to uphold! - but that wasn't important. What was important, however, was that the chosen undead seemed to have gotten too impatient and was now rushing him like a bull.

Ornstein gracefully jumped out of the way of the sword. No, it was too large to be called a sword. It was a metal slab. "You're going down, lion boy!" The chosen corpse - who couldn't make up his mind whether or not if he wanted to live or die - taunted. Not very imaginative, Ornstein noted, for even Smough had made that unfunny joke previously, before his, _ah_ , annihilation. "Scared, furry lover?" Furry lover? That was a new one. He had never heard of the phrase before. The walking flea magnet smirked as if he had successfully offended the mildly disgruntled knight. Ornstein stared back at him, unimpressed. "Take — _this_!" The moving blob of flesh grunted as he flung the sharp sheet of tempered steel at at him. Well, at least, he attempted to. In reality, the lump of steel flew less than three feet away from the filthy piece babbling of meat. Ornstein looked on, an unseen eyebrow raised. Really? He curbed the compulsion to sigh yet again, for the third time. "I - I intended to do that!" The - the - honestly, he couldn't even bother to name it any longer. The great hunk of steel and something smashed together finally fell to the floor, somehow defying gravity, pointy end face down. Ornstein was sure that the sword was _not_ supposed to stay in the air for so long. Oh well, he thought, shrugging his shoulders. Miyazaki probably overlooked this glaring bug, he mused, although he wasn't quite sure who this 'Miyazaki' person was. Ornstein watched as the huge ingot of refined metal slowly sank into the ornate floor as his mind tried to process the utter destruction he was seeing. The rude human blinked at the hilt that was sticking out of the ground then rushed towards it as Ornstein began to unconsciously shake in despair. The - _thing_ \- gave a flimsy laugh as he struggled to pull his, no, _its_ sword out from the ground. 'Please, don't kill me. Smough alone was an absolute bitch to kill! I don't want to start over again!' The expression on human's face read, as he let out a pitiful whine. Ornstein's hidden face fell in horror as he came to a terrifying realisation. The - _the floor. His beautiful, magnificent floor_. The floor he had worked on for five years to fix after he had destroyed it on a -shocking- accident, leading to crumbling, soot-covered marble left in its wake. _The nerve of this human! Absolutely no appreciation for fine art!_ he fumed. Surely, _surely_ this was too much for Ornstein to take. He ignored the flailing chosen undead who was tugging at his sword desperately as he raised his golden spear up into the air - and struck down hard. The undead's eyes widened almost comically and shrieked in terror, a high pitched and absolutely unmanly sound as his hands slackened from the hilt and rose to cover his face in fear. When he realised he was not dead, he peeked upwards - and realised that Ornstein had stabbed himself through the gut. "W - what…?" The undead squeaked. Ornstein parted his dry, cracked lips and broke the silence he had kept in perhaps more than a millennium.

"I'm not repairing that floor again," he breathed.

And he dropped to said floor with an echoing 'thump', fading away as the shell-shocked undead watched, palms now at his sides, jaw gaping as he attempted to fully comprehend what had happened in front of him, the forgotten sword still stuck in the floor.

A veil of stillness lingered after. "... ... ," The thoroughly confused chosen undead tried to search for words to accurately sum up what he had just witnessed as his mouth flopped open and closed over and over, imitating a fish gasping desperately for (dissolved) air. Finally, with a click, his jaw clasped together as he breathed in through his nose deeply.

"What the fuck."


End file.
